Token
by lewilder
Summary: Lancelot never thought the biggest mistake of his life would turn out to be his saving grace. An Arthurian take on Eros/Psyche. Lancelot/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hi there! Thanks for clicking in. After years of reading fanfiction, I finally got my act together and committed to writing one. It's a post-movie **_**King Arthur**_** tale, AU in that all of the movie knights survived. I've taken inspiration from the myth of Eros & Psyche, although it's not a direct translation of the myth into the Arthurian world. However, if you're familiar with the myth, there should definitely be some elements that you recognize!**

**Many thanks to homeric, who is an incredible beta (if, by any chance, you haven't read her work, go read it now, stat—my story will still be here when you get back, swearsies).**

**And, of course, the obligatory disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize, either from **_**King Arthur**_** or from mythology. I'm not making any monetary profit from this venture. This is all in good fun.**

**So without further ado, here goes nothing. Enjoy and thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Prologue**

_In the days when the world was younger than it is now, and mankind less divided from his natural surroundings by machinations contrived for its subjugation to his will, there was communion unthought-of today between the physical and the spiritual realms. An act of heedless human violence against nature could trigger far-flung repercussions. So it was that when one ancient lord killed his kinsman over the claim to a silver mine that gutted virgin northern soil, the land cried out against the lifeblood spilt from both human and mineral veins._

_For years afterward, the murderer continued his quest to rob the land of its richness. In retribution, the spirits of the defiled land visited him in a dream, placing him and his descendants under a curse. Because the land had been robbed of its treasure, so would the family be: they would bear only sons for a time, and, when a daughter finally arrived, she must be married off to a foreigner, never to see her home or her family again, before her seventeenth birthday. If this stipulation went unheeded, all of the males in the family would be rendered sterile, effectively killing the family line._

_Generations passed, and the sons of a family that had used its wealth of silver to establish dominion over all surrounding peoples took wives who bore them more sons. It was only after seven generations of sons had been born that the eighth generation, after the birth of three sons, brought forth a daughter._

_When the news reached the king from the birthing room, he hardened his heart against the child. When the news reached the kingdom beyond the fortress, he readied his troops for battle. Being the one through whom the curse came to fruition allowed him no easy throne upon which to rest. His kingdom was to be maintained or destroyed in the years to come._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The bleak light of a late winter sun filtered coldly through skeletal trees as a pair of feet trod softly through days-old snow, leaving muddied footprints in its path. Only birdsong from winter's hardiest tenants and the muffled cracking of twigs signaled that all wildlife had not retreated in the face of such bitter weather.

Puffs of crystallized breath preceded the young woman as she wandered along the barest hint of a path through the woods, trying to ignore the cold seeping through her warmest shoes. She paused her wandering occasionally to pick up fallen pinecones or break small boughs off of evergreen trees, adding each new acquisition to the small store she already carried in her basket.

The snow on the ground was receding, the remnant of a rare winter snowstorm the previous week. The forest's trees were thickly grouped but their current snowless and leafless state gave an impression of unusual openness. She preferred the forest in summertime, she thought absentmindedly, when leaves, underbrush, and the thrum of life surrounded her.

She walked the familiar path without much thought and didn't notice that she had passed from forest to shore until the snow turned sandy beneath her muddy feet. In the transition, she lost her footing and tripped, catching herself before she fell but scattering her basket and its contents around her on the beach.

"Lady Bethan!" She heard Alden, the guard assigned to her for the day, call out and begin to run toward her.

Bethan smiled ruefully and waved him away as she said, "I'm fine, Alden! I tripped but I don't require your assistance."

Nodding respectfully, Alden again backed away to the habitual distance he kept while supervising his charge.

Cocking her head and sighing, Bethan knelt to retrieve her basket and greens. That task accomplished, she stood and walked several more paces forward. Some distance from the water, she stopped.

Bethan closed her eyes to the whipping wind for an instant, breathing in the scent of salt and cold, the clean, clear smell of a wintry sea. When she opened them again, she set down her basket—once again full of evergreen boughs—on the sand and sat beside it, pulling her cloak more tightly around her against the cold.

It seemed to her that only a few minutes had passed before her youngest brother's voice interrupted her solitude.

"Bethan!" Cadell shouted, waving as he trotted past Alden toward her. "Bethan, Father sent me to fetch you. He says you'll catch your death of cold if you stay out here any longer."

"He wouldn't care much if I did," Bethan muttered as she stood and turned to face her brother, pushing her dark hair from her face against the wind's efforts. As her brother arrived at her side, she said, "I was just out gathering some boughs to put in my room. Everything seems so dark and dead inside in winter. I want something to remind me that spring will come again and I'm not going to be kept inside forever, like a caged animal."

Cadell smiled impishly and tweaked her nose as he replied, "Sister, everything's dark and dead outside in wintertide, too, but that doesn't stop you from wandering."

Bethan sighed and cast another glance at the crashing waves. "Here, at least, I can breathe free and be alone—well, mostly alone," she said, nodding wryly toward Alden, "with my thoughts."

Cadell stooped to pick up Bethan's basket, then offered her his arm. As they started walking back toward the forest with Alden trailing them, he said, "Have you so many thoughts that you need this vast expanse to exercise them? My, my, what are they teaching women these days?"

Snorting, Bethan withdrew her arm from his and pushed him lightly, replying, "Enough of that, Cadell. You know as well as I do that I'll be married off come summertime. Perhaps I simply wish to bid a fond farewell to the land of my youth."

"My apologies, then," Cadell offered, reaching out for her arm again. "But I do wish you'd stop wandering off. Then I wouldn't have to be out in this blasted cold searching for you."

Bethan looked up at her brother as they traversed the forest path. Birdsong filled the silence until she said quietly, "You only have to search for me because Father wants to protect me—even against winter's chill, it would seem. And Father only wants to protect me because he wants to protect himself—and you and the other men," she amended. "A daughter wouldn't be nearly so important if I weren't the key to breaking the curse, and, even now, I'm merely an obstacle to be overcome. He'll be glad to be rid of me."

"I wish I could say you were wrong," Cadell replied. A dark emotion flickered in his eyes as he returned her gaze but it quickly disappeared with a smile in its wake. "But we're almost home. Cheer up and think of all the lovely things you can do with these—" he paused and held up her basket of branches dubiously "—when you get back to your room."

Bethan laughed, then leaned up to kiss her brother's cheek. "I know you think I'm silly," she said, "and I'm sorry that you're always the one Father sends on these errands to find me."

As the pair crested a hill, a large rock edifice came into view. The fortress was old but well-maintained, and they knew it as well as any children would know the place that housed the hide-and-seek games of four young siblings. The setting winter sun cast a harsh shadow on its rigid shape, making it seem all the more imposing. Bethan shuddered for an instant, wishing she didn't have to go inside just yet.

"Well, we're here," she said abruptly, breaking the companionable silence that had accompanied the duration of their walk. "Let's go in, then, and no more of your complaints about searching in the cold to find me, for I can promise you it's nearly as cold in there as it is out here."

* * *

The siblings bid farewell to Alden as they entered the courtyard to find a flurry of activity and two unfamiliar horses being led into the stables.

"Dobbin!" Cadell hailed the stablemaster who was giving instructions to the two stableboys who led the horses.

The portly man, ruddy-faced from the cold, turned to the prince and princess, bowing politely. "Your highnesses," he began, then glanced over his shoulder to survey the progress of the stableboys before giving the royal pair his full attention and inquiring, "What can I do for you today?"

"You can tell us whence those strange horses came and why the place is busier than a beehive with what looks to be visitors at this time of year," Cadell said.

"They hail from Camelot, milord," Dobbin replied. "Two of King Arthur's knights rode in shortly before you arrived."

"King Arthur?" Bethan interrupted. "The one about whom we've heard all those tales? What business has he here? Surely Father poses no threat to his growing kingdom across the water!"

Dobbin hesitated briefly before answering, "The rapidly growing rumor tells nothing of threats, milady. Rather, it is said that they come seeking an alliance…and you."

Bethan paled despite her wind-chapped cheeks and instinctively grabbed Cadell's arm for support. "Me? They seek…" Her voice faded as she began to process this new information.

"They seek to secure an alliance with your hand in marriage as the pledge," Cadell said frankly, putting his arm around her. "Thank you, Dobbin," he said, nodding briskly before turning toward the fortress with his sister. "Come, Bethan. Let's get you inside."

Bethan, deep in thought, followed her brother as he led her inside, where he grabbed a torch to light the dark stone passageways in the growing dusk, and took her to her room. Bethan sat down on her bed while Cadell positioned the torch in the bracket on the wall and then joined her.

"Little sister," he said gently, tipping her chin up so she was looking at him, "Don't look so downcast. You knew this day was coming. You turn seventeen this summer and you knew you had to marry before then as the sacrifice to prevent the fulfillment of our family's curse."

"I know!" Bethan muttered, irritated, turning her head from his grasp and biting back the sudden sting of tears. "I know, and I know it's irrational to get upset about the inevitable—after all, I've had nearly seventeen years to prepare myself for it. But I don't want to go, Cadell. I love it here; I love the cliffs and the sea and my brothers. It's my home. And I don't want to get married, either," she finished sulkily.

Cadell laughed at that, reaching out to wipe away his sister's tears. "You don't want to get married? Bethan, you're one of the most addle-brained women I know when it comes to matters of love. You would sit with our old nursemaid around the fire for hours at night when we were little, begging her to tell just one more tale of kings and queens and knights and dragons and wars waged for love."

Bethan sniffled. "You don't know very many women," she countered sullenly, although the corners of her lips turned up in a small smile.

"There, now, that's better," Cadell replied as he smiled in return, ignoring her slight. "It will be all right, you'll see."

"But how can you know?" Bethan protested softly, wringing her hands absentmindedly in her skirts. "What if it's terribly unpleasant in Camelot? What if the man I marry is a monster, worse than the dragons in those old tales?"

"You're not even sure yet that Arthur's knights are here to take you with them," Cadell said. He raked a hand through his tawny hair and sighed. "Although they probably are: Dobbin's rumors are usually uncannily reliable. And as for your husband, we can only hope he'll be a good man. But if he's not, you will be a dutiful wife anyway."

Bethan frowned at that and opened her mouth to speak, but Cadell continued, "You were brought up for this task, Bethan, and you can't run from it now that it's staring you in the face." He reached out to hug her and kiss the top of her head. "So stop your tears, stop your questions, put on a pretty dress, and come to dinner."

He had almost reached the door to her room when Bethan said quietly, "You're right. I know you are. But I think that, somehow, I always hoped something would happen to change my fate. I hoped that, somehow, I might marry for love."

"Most people of our rank don't have that privilege, Bethan, cursed or not. Your marriage, when it happens, won't start with love, but, with any luck, you'll find it someday." Cadell smiled at his sister, lighting a candle with the torch before he took it and left to ready himself for dinner and the night ahead.

* * *

Bethan let out a heavy sigh as she stared into the silent darkness that had quickly swallowed the echo of her brother's footsteps. After a few moments, she roused herself and rose to dress for dinner. One of the maids arrived to help her dress, and, from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, she pulled out a dark blue woolen dress for Bethan, fancy enough to be suitable for state dinners (which tonight was going to be, apparently), yet thick enough to keep the biting winter cold that seeped through the fortress' stones at bay.

After donning the gown, Bethan re-plaited her hair to hide the evidence of her windblown afternoon excursion. Briefly, she wished she had a looking glass in which she might see her reflection, but the maid assured her she had attained the desired effect. _Cadell would say I'm too vain_, Bethan thought, smiling to herself as she ran her hands over her hair, checking again for any stray strands. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she followed the now-torch-lit corridors down to the dining hall.

The room she entered was lit at one end by a large fireplace and additionally by several torches mounted along the stone walls. Small niches with benches carved into the wall lined one side of the room and corresponding windows looked into the central courtyard. Bethan had spent countless hours daydreaming—or, less pleasantly, sewing—on one or another of those benches. Tonight, however, the stone benches were empty, and the chairs surrounding the long, sturdy wooden table running down the center of the room were full.

Bethan curtsied to her father, who nodded in return, and then she took her seat next to Cadell.

"Slowpoke," he whispered.

"Hush," she whispered back, turning her attention to her father, who was rising to speak.

King Caerwyn was a sturdy man whose grey-bearded, careworn face spoke of years of military hardship. In the early years of his kingship, he had crushed several fledgling rebellions against his family's right to rule and had since maintained a firm grip on his domain, exerting his authority where necessary and levying taxes and tribute as a show of strength. The people of the realm, mostly farmers, lived comfortably enough under his rule but would not mourn his loss when another man took the throne. His heir, they hoped, would be less exacting.

Now, in the torchlight, Bethan had to admit that her father cut a commanding figure. He had never treated her cruelly, but neither had he been kind. To him a daughter represented weakness: sons were a sign of strength. She knew, too, that the superstitions surrounding daughters—and daughters of her family particularly—had been part of the reason her father had had to quell so many rebellions in her youth, after the death of her grandfather made him king. She thanked whatever gods there were that she had been born fourth, not first, and that her brothers had appeased her father's pride before she arrived.

Her mother had died giving birth to her and her father had never remarried; Bethan knew he would never admit it, but she suspected that he had loved her mother very much. Theirs had been an arranged marriage too, rather similar in circumstance to what she had heard of the marriage of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Camelot: a monarch marrying into the ruling family of a surrounding people group in order to secure his borders and expand his domain. But sometime during the course of her parents' marriage, they had fallen in love. At least, Bethan thought they had, because they seemed so pleasant together in the stories she'd managed to pester out of her brothers when she was a little girl.

The thought of marriage reminded Bethan of the knights they were entertaining, and when she began to listen to her father's words, she realized that he had finished the preliminaries of politesse and was introducing their guests.

"Tonight, we welcome Sirs Galahad and Gawain of Camelot. They come at the behest of King Arthur of Camelot." He turned to the knights. "Sirs, allow me to introduce the court."

When her turn came among her brothers and other members of court who were in attendance that night, Bethan inclined her head and smiled politely at the foreign knights. As the others were being introduced, she took the opportunity to study the visitors. Sir Gawain, who appeared to be the elder of the two—although he was by no means old—looked rather like she'd imagined a lion from the tales of her youth might look with his long, tousled blond hair. And he certainly appeared to be more at ease at a stranger's table than his companion, Sir Galahad, did. Galahad, she thought, looked nervous and twitchy, almost like a newt that would scuttle away on spindly legs at the slightest touch. She had to stifle a giggle at that thought, earning a jab in the side (and a "tell me later" look) from Cadell.

Dinner passed quickly with little comment from any of the parties present and Bethan was surprised to hear Gawain address her father as they all rose to leave the table.

"King Caerwyn, by your leave, Galahad and I would like to discuss our business with you this evening before we retire. Time is pressing; it is for that reason that we traveled from Camelot when first the winter weather allowed rather than waiting for spring. King Arthur desires that we return as soon as possible."

King Caerwyn paused, weighing for a moment his guest's request against his own desire for rest on a cold winter's evening. Finally, he nodded, beckoning the knights to follow him. To a manservant he passed on the way out of the room, he said, "Burl, bring wine to the study for me and these gentlemen." With that, he led Gawain and Galahad away from the gathering.

Bethan was just about to follow them when Cadell grabbed her arm. "Don't even think about it, little sister," he hissed in her ear so that none of their companions could hear. "It may be your future that they are discussing, but you will not eavesdrop. Not tonight."

"Why not?" she hissed back. "If it _is_ me they're talking about, I want to know what's said firsthand. And if it's not, what's the harm in my knowing? I can be discreet."

"I don't doubt your circumspection," Cadell replied, guiding her away from the dispersing group headed toward conversation or bed. "But if you are to become a married woman, you need to stop childish habits like eavesdropping. You will be told what you need to know at the appropriate time."

Bethan pouted but complied with her brother's order. Reluctantly, she went upstairs to her bedroom, where the scent of evergreen boughs lulled her into a restless sleep.

* * *

Downstairs, in the king's study, the flames sparked and hissed in the fireplace as the three men drew ornate wooden chairs close to it for warmth.

A few minutes of silence passed, during which the king stared into the flickering flames and Gawain and Galahad exchanged glances, waiting for permission to speak. At last, King Caerwyn leaned back into his chair, and said, "Well, gentlemen, what is your mission?"

Gawain cleared his throat and clasped his hands together before he began to speak. "King Caerwyn, sovereign of these lands, we bring you a message from King Arthur of Camelot. As you may have heard, Arthur has established the kingdom of Camelot in the wake of the retreat of the Roman Empire from Britain. He has already battled the Saxons to the north, allied with the Woads, and has expanded his domain in all directions. He is a good king, well-loved by his people, but the Saxons and other tribes continue to pose a threat to his rule." Gawain paused, cleared his throat, and continued with the brunt of his message: "Arthur wishes to ally with you, King Caerwyn, in a pact of mutual peace with the promise of mutual aid should the other need it. He additionally proposes that one of his knights take the hand of your daughter in marriage as a token of this alliance."

King Caerwyn sighed. "You have heard of my family's curse?"

"We have, your highness." Gawain spoke and Galahad nodded in assent.

"So you know that she must marry before summer comes. I have heard good things about this Arthur. An alliance would not be unwelcome, and the riddance of my daughter would be most welcome. Who would be her bridegroom?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the room for a few moments before Galahad spoke up. "I'm afraid we're not at liberty to tell you that, your highness."

The king's eyes narrowed as he eyed the pair of knights suspiciously. "And why not?" he asked.

Galahad glanced at Gawain, then took a deep breath and said, "Yet again, I'm afraid we're not at liberty to reveal that information. For reasons of his own, unrelated to you or to the alliance, King Arthur has ordered that the identity of your daughter's future husband be kept a secret."

"We can assure you, however," Gawain broke in, "that the man she will marry is a well-respected knight of the realm and that she will never meet harm in his care."

"If he is of such fine stock, why can I not know who he is?" King Caerwyn persisted. When he was once again met with a polite refusal to divulge the information, he sat back in his chair and stared into the fire for several minutes. Gawain and Galahad waited anxiously in the silence marred only by the crackling fire.

"This King Arthur of yours is a strange man, to come with such a request—that I bequeath my daughter to the care of a man he refuses to make known to me." He sighed, running a hand down his beard. "But he is a clever man, too, to make such a request at my time of need. He knows I have no other offers and cannot risk keeping my daughter longer than I already have."

He stood and turned to face the knights. "Gentlemen," he said, "It seems I have no choice other than to accept your king's offer. You will take my daughter with you when you return to Britain and she will wed the knight of your king's choosing. But the marriage must be accomplished by midsummer or else the curse will come upon my family. And if we discover that your king has been false in his promise, the alliance is nullified. Do you understand, good knights?"

Galahad and Gawain stood and bowed. "We do, King Caerwyn," Gawain answered. "You have our word that all will take place as we have spoken here this night."

"Let it be so." King Caerwyn nodded, dismissing them, as Burl came to lead them to their chambers for the night.

Outside, the wind howled a wintry lullaby as the inhabitants of the fortress slept, waiting for the meager warmth of dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hello again! Here's chapter two, which I hope does not disappoint. If chapter one was light and "hey, meet the OC," chapter two is a little heavier and more revealing of what's in store for our characters.**

**By the timeline given here, the story takes place about a year(ish) post-movie. I am aware that, realistically, Camelot could not be nearly as established as it is, especially with castles and such that took a long time to build manually. But let's just go with it, shall we? :) (Side note: If you ever get a chance to visit Guédelon, which is about a three hours' drive south of Paris in France, do so! It's a site where they're authentically recreating the construction of a medieval castle. The project is supposed to take until about 2025, if I recall correctly, and it's a really neat visit.)**

**Thank you to all of the readers and reviewers from the last chapter. Hopefully you enjoy this one, as well. And, again, many thanks to homeric for being a wonderful beta.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize, either from **_**King Arthur**_** or from mythology. I'm not making any monetary profit from this venture. This is all in good fun. Also, in this chapter I mention that Caerwyn is the ruler of Ailech, which, according to Wikipedia, was a kingdom in ancient Ireland. I just needed a name and am not in any way implying any real reflection of the historical fact of the place. And another also, I'm not in any way related to Guédelon and the powers that be don't know I've mentioned it here. I'm just a satisfied tourist. :)**

**Lastly, happy Independence Day to my fellow Americans. May your day be properly celebratory.**

**Props if you read all of that. Here's the chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The shuffling of ill-clad feet mumbled throughout the stone hallway that served as the entryway to the main fortress of the settlement at Camelot as the daily supplicants made their restless presence known. In the morning light that barely filtered through the slits set high in the walls they appeared drawn, pale, and dirty. Somewhere just out of eyesight, a chicken squawked.

Lancelot sighed, looking down the line of people waiting before him. Farmers, guildsmen, the occasional widow—all stood in the shadowy passageway, a nervous chatter humming through them as they waited for their audience with the king. Since Arthur had assumed the throne, he had insisted on taking time each morning he was in Camelot to speak with his subjects. Anyone who wished to address the king was welcome.

From just after dawn until noon each day, Lancelot sat at a rectangular oaken table, listening to the stories of Camelot's subjects who had come with a request, a word of thanks, or some other message for King Arthur. In theory, Lancelot's role was to prevent potential troublemakers from reaching the king's presence. In reality, he spent his morning hours listening to yet another farmer who was grateful for the king's benefaction and had brought a chicken—or a pig or a goat—to show his thanks.

A scribe sat beside him, writing on a vellum scroll and making a note of each visitor before he or she entered the throne room to speak to Arthur. Today, Tristan was there, as well, leaning in the shadows against the wall behind the table, whittling a small piece of wood and appearing not to listen to the petitioners' tales.

The man in front of Lancelot now was a farmer, a humble-looking elderly man in worn homespun clothes who stood anxiously twisting his woolen cap in his calloused hands.

"Sir Lancelot," he began, "My name is Zadock. My wife and I have a small farm just outside the city wall. This past harvest season, I fell ill with the ague and my wife was left to harvest our crop herself. The king took notice of our plight and sent some of his servants to help my wife with the work. I have come to thank him in person because, if it weren't for him, we might not have gathered our harvest in time and wouldn't have enough food to last the winter." Zadock took a shaky breath as though speaking the tale had exhausted him. He looked ill at ease within the confines of the castle.

_Probably more comfortable out of doors_, Lancelot thought—not unlike himself.

"And that is why I would like to speak to King Arthur," Zadock concluded, as though worried he hadn't been clear enough before.

_King Arthur._ Lancelot swallowed a grimace and nodded toward the throne room. "Enter," he told Zadock. The farmer bowed to Lancelot and turned to walk toward the throne room, wringing his woolen cap in his hands as he went.

Lancelot's thoughts walked the man's path with him, as he knew he would be following Zadock's footsteps when the dwindling line of petitioners was gone: Arthur had requested an audience with him after his morning's work.

After a few minutes, Zadock and his cap left and the remaining people filtered through the throne room fairly quickly. Tristan emerged from the shadows, clapped Lancelot on the shoulder, and they both walked to the throne room where Arthur and Guinevere waited.

With each step he took, Lancelot's stomach tightened with dread, his thoughts racing as he attempted to maintain a stoic façade. If there was one thing Lancelot would never forget in his entire lifetime, it was the look on Arthur's face when he found his best friend with his wife. Anger, Lancelot could have handled. Hatred, even. But the look of absolute betrayal was almost more than he could bear.

He thanked whatever gods there were that he and Guinevere had only been kissing at the time. If they had been caught in a more compromising situation—and there had been many more compromising situations—he wasn't sure he would still be living today. As it was, he had fully expected imprisonment, loss of position in the fledgling realm of Camelot, and possibly banishment if prison hadn't proven punishment enough.

Banishment would have been a blessing.

Gods and men had refined sensibilities when it came to revenge, Lancelot discovered. Because aside from the subtle change of living under the constant guard of one of his fellow Sarmatian knights, Arthur made sure that nothing in his life changed. He maintained rank and duties; he sat beside the royal couple at functions of state. He waged Arthur's wars alongside his fellow knights; he shuffled through the communal restlessness between missions. But most exquisitely painful of all, he watched with unobstructed clarity as Arthur constantly reminded him whose wife Guinevere was.

It was never much; nothing an outside observer would question between the king and his wife. A touch of the hand, a kiss on the cheek, a whisper. Afterward, Arthur's eyes would flick briefly to Lancelot's, and the message was clearly conveyed.

For Lancelot, the living prison of his guilt was far worse than a physical prison of stone and iron. And Arthur knew it.

It was, perhaps, foolish to wager a man's sense of honor against him when the man had already proven he had none—at least, none that functioned properly when it came to the allure of a woman, to inviting glances, to stolen caresses, to soft respite from the harshness of life. But there had been a time, not so very long ago, when Lancelot would have died for Arthur and his causes, and almost did.

The battle with the Saxons at Badon Hill left Lancelot nearly dead. The healers were surprised he'd woken up at all after the severe wounds he'd suffered to his chest. As a result, he spent most of the pivotal months of Camelot's founding in convalescence, chafing at the restraints imposed upon him by, in his opinion, overzealous healers who wanted to ensure that the king's second-in-command regained his full strength.

They probably wouldn't have tried so hard, he reflected later, if they'd known what he was about to do.

The queen's visits started innocently enough, an occasional stopping by to inquire as to his progress. After all, he'd fought Cynric to save her. But then—and, for all he'd thought about it since, Lancelot still couldn't summon details as to _how_ the change had occurred—they had crossed the line, yielded to the unspoken attraction from the previous winter, and Lancelot had found himself embroiled in a passionate affair with Guinevere.

In the months before Arthur discovered them, Lancelot felt invincible; in the months after their discovery, Lancelot found himself directing the full force of his tangled emotions of lost love, lost friendship, resentment, and jealousy toward Arthur. Was it shame or hatred now that occasionally roiled so deeply that it prevented him from meeting his former best friend's gaze when they spoke?

He didn't know how Guinevere felt. He had his suspicions, of course, but he hadn't spoken to her since the affair had ended. Arthur made sure he was under constant guard and had no opportunity to speak to any woman, let alone Arthur's wife.

Lancelot's musings came to an abrupt halt when, out of force of habit more than any conscious heed he paid his surroundings, he stopped beside Tristan, bowed to the royal couple, and stood tensely before the dais where Arthur and Guinevere sat enthroned.

The thrones upon which the royal couple sat were wooden, solid, and ornately carved with gargoyles and intertwined vines. In an attempt to assuage any lingering doubts concerning his well-meaning intentions toward the Woads and to uphold his ideals of the innate equality of the sexes, Arthur had ordered that his throne and Guinevere's be identical, rather than seating his queen on a throne of more delicate construction that would imply a status of personhood below his own.

On the side of the room that bordered the fortress' exterior, the windows were as small and highly-positioned as in the entryway, but on the side of the room that faced the courtyard, Arthur had commissioned ornate stained-glass windows. On sunny days like today, they cast the room in reds and golds that made it shimmer like precious jewels.

Aside from the dais with the thrones upon it, the room was empty, but seemed less so because the walls were lavishly decorated with tapestries of rich fabrics. Gold, reds, purples, and deep blues all spoke to Arthur's increasing wealth and power. It would not do to have callers see the king in anything less than regal splendor, especially during the nascence of a new nation.

_Arthur always did have a penchant for grandeur,_ Lancelot thought as he surveyed his surroundings and waited for the king to speak.

Breaking the silence, Arthur began, "Tristan, please wait for Lancelot outside. He will join you when we have concluded our business." Tristan nodded and left the room soundlessly, closing the large oak doors behind him.

"Lancelot, First Knight of Camelot, the time has come yet again for you to prove your fealty to the throne." Arthur said. "As you well know, our presence here in Britain is still new and our potential enemies are numerous. We must do what we can to protect ourselves and ensure Camelot's security in this realm. Well-placed allies are indispensable, and I have reason to think we have found one such ally to our west. Gawain and Galahad are currently in parley with King Caerwyn of Ailech and, if their mission succeeds, they will return with King Caerwyn's daughter. You will wed her to seal the alliance."

Despite his best efforts, Lancelot found himself opening his mouth to protest. "But Arthur..."

Arthur held up his hand, silencing Lancelot. "There's more. Allow me to finish; then you may speak."

Lancelot didn't reply and Arthur continued, "Not only will you wed her, but, for the time being, the marriage will remain a secret. No one but the innermost circle of the court will know of its existence. The ostensible reason for her being here will be as a companion for Guinevere."

At this revelation, the queen cast a sharp glance at her husband. Lancelot felt his gut twist. Apparently he wasn't the only one Arthur intended to punish with this ruling. He wanted to cry out, _"Don't involve her, please. Let me bear the punishment for our indiscretions." _

Instead, he meted out in a low, even tone, "Arthur, you jest. Surely you cannot be serious."

Arthur met his gaze soberly and replied, "But I am serious, Lancelot. And you would do well not to question my decisions. An alliance with Caerwyn is imperative if we wish to maintain Camelot's defenses."

"And the only way to secure this alliance is to marry me off? In secret?" Lancelot challenged, his anger mounting although he kept his voice steady.

Arthur sighed and spoke while keeping the gaze of his second-in-command, who glowered at him. "I have already explained the situation to you, Lancelot. King Caerwyn has his own reasons to wish his daughter wed, and, for my part, I seek an alliance. All of my previous attempts to find a suitable match for you have been thwarted. Despite the somewhat inconvenient conditions that accompany this marriage and despite your repudiation of the marriage covenant..."

Here Arthur paused for a moment to take Guinevere's hand in his. "As I was saying, most men in your situation would be grateful to have their lives and social standing intact and would not bemoan what is, in fact, a most advantageous match."

Throughout the exchange, Guinevere had sat silently and avoided Lancelot's gaze. Her eyes were studiously focused on where her fingers intertwined with Arthur's on the throne's arm as Lancelot hissed out, "Yes, my lord," with the air of one mortally wounded. He bowed stiffly and turned on his heel to leave the throne room, disturbing the dust motes in the stained-glass sunshine as he went.

Lancelot stalked through the winding stone passageways of the fortress until he reached his room, nearly oblivious to the fact that Tristan had trailed him from the moment he left his audience with Arthur. Unlike some of his other guards, the scout's nearly unbroken silence made it easy to ignore his presence. When Tristan guarded him, he felt almost alone.

Once inside his room with his friend just outside the door, Lancelot began to pace furiously. His thoughts were racing and if the walls had been made of anything softer than stone, he would have slammed his fist into one of them. Damn Arthur for his meddling ways—to use him as a pawn and consign him to life as the husband of a wife he wasn't allowed to publicly acknowledge. Damn his guards for ensuring he wouldn't be able to so much as bed a barmaid if his wife left anything to be desired—not that he'd had a woman since Guinevere. Damn his guards for that, as well. Damn Guinevere for being so enticing.

_And damn you for being so weak as to sleep with your best friend's wife_, a small prick of his conscience added. Lancelot chose to ignore that voice for the time being. He stopped pacing just long enough to grab a wooden drinking cup from a small table alongside one wall and hurl it to the opposite side of the small room. It hit the stone with a satisfying smack but then rolled feebly under his bed. And it did nothing to relieve his frustration. Lancelot resumed his pacing.

Somewhere amid his internal turmoil, it crossed his mind that he could leave Camelot. He didn't need to stay here and live like this. As quickly as the thought arose, he rejected it. Since the end of the affair Lancelot had often considered fleeing. If he left for Sarmatia or anywhere else, he knew Arthur wouldn't pursue him. He was no longer Rome's slave; he was free. But even without the threat of death at Roman hands hanging over his head, he had discovered that he was bound here. He could no more leave his service to Arthur and this godforsaken isle than he could stop breathing. Too much of his life had been taken, too many comrades had been lost, and the ties forged by mutual survival were too strong to break. As long as both of them lived, Lancelot knew he would serve Arthur.

And now he was to take a wife, too, a wife born and bred on this soil. Yet another link between him and this land. Lancelot frowned at the thought.

Breathing in deeply, he stopped his pacing and sat on the floor, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall, willing the sheer force of winter's chill to bring him some clarity. Instinctively, his hand slipped to the talisman looped onto his belt, the reminder of his homeland that ever resided with him. What luck had it ever brought him? Survival, perhaps. But to what end?

A sudden firm knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Lancelot!" Bors' voice shouted, loud even though the wood. "It's time to eat. You coming or do I have to get Van to bring me my food here?"

"Damn," Lancelot muttered under his breath. The guard had changed. It was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone who's read/reviewed so far-I really appreciate it.**

**Thanks again to homeric for being a great beta and to CeffylGwyn for being an excellent sounding board.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize, either from **_**King Arthur**_** or from mythology. I'm not making any monetary profit from this venture. This is all in good fun.**

**Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the chapter. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Bethan awoke to the sound of a maid entering her room to stoke the fire and a niggling sense that all was not right. Against the sound of an iron poker pushing around heavy logs, she buried her head under the covers and attempted to regain the blissful ignorance of sleep. She had been dreaming of something pleasant, although she couldn't quite remember what it was, and she hoped that in slumber she might find her dream again.

Her efforts were disrupted when, through the door left slightly ajar by the maid tending her fireplace, she heard two other maids gossiping as they walked down the hallway.

"Did you catch a glimpse of those visiting knights last night?" one asked.

Her companion giggled and said, "Yes, and aren't I jealous that Martha's the one who gets to clean their rooms! We'll have to ask her later if she…"

The girls passed out of earshot quickly, but their conversation was enough to remind Bethan of the source of her disquiet: the knights of Camelot who had most likely come to negotiate her betrothal.

What had happened during the knights' meeting with her father the previous night? Now more than ever, Bethan wished she'd eavesdropped.

She dressed quickly once the maid left, and when she opened her door again to make her way downstairs, she saw Cadell leaning against the wall across from her room waiting for her. His arms were crossed over his chest and he stared at the floor, a dour expression upon his face.

Bethan closed her bedroom door behind her and regarded her brother, who raised his head to meet her gaze for a few long moments before she spoke. In his clear eyes that she had always been able to read so well, she saw a mixture of pain, anger, and resignation that led to only one conclusion.

"I'm leaving with them," she stated softly.

Cadell nodded tersely but didn't reply.

At this silent pronouncement of her fate by the one she held most dear, Bethan felt a strange tugging in her heart. Part of her wished desperately that she could stop time in its tracks, that she could remain a child forever and never have to leave her beloved forests, shores, and hills. Yet another part of her, a denied but slowly growing part, recognized that those days had passed long before the knights arrived.

Her two eldest brothers were already wed; Father would begin looking for a bride for Cadell in the next year or two. Although she adored Cadell, she had seen less and less of him as they grew toward adulthood. The childhood romps through the woods and glens had gradually been replaced by politics, horsemanship, and war as each brother, one by one, left the nursery for the training field. And then only Bethan had remained, waiting under constant guard for the day when she, too, would have a role to play in her family's history.

Her childhood had lasted a little longer than her brothers' and she had been able to ignore the inevitable for a time. But she was a woman now, or near enough to one, and she was to be a wife, to join her lot forever with a man's and hope against hope he was kind.

Bethan took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, then asked, "When?"

Cadell pursed his lips and then let out his breath in a scoff that sounded loud in the early morning quiet. He spoke gently despite the tension wrought on his features. "You leave today. The knights wish to take advantage of the good weather and return to Camelot as quickly as possible."

Bethan's first instinct was to protest. They couldn't possibly leave today; there wasn't nearly enough time for her to prepare… And yet, what was there to prepare? Some clothes to pack, some childhood trinkets to gather, but she had nothing else to bring with her. She had no friends to whom she owed a visit of farewell, no duties left undone except the one that lay before her. Despite years of expecting this enactment of her fate, of her departure from her beloved homeland to the strange unknown, the moment took her by surprise and she found herself starting to shake.

She didn't realize Cadell had pulled her into a hug until she felt his hand on her hair, smoothing it gently just as he had when they were young children and she'd had a nightmare or hurt herself during one of their rough-and-tumble games.

"Shhh, Bethan," he soothed. "It will be all right."

Her brother hadn't spoken in that voice towards her in years, but Bethan had heard him use it a few days prior while calming a skittish horse. Disliking the sudden equine comparison she privately drew, Bethan pulled out of her brother's arms and met his gaze once more. She didn't want him to worry for her; she couldn't accept more of his comfort. Somewhere in her unquiet spirit, she began to acquaint herself with resignation and an accompanying mettle.

To her relief, her voice was steady when she spoke. "I'll miss you, Cadell."

"And I'll miss you." He smiled at her. "Now gather your strength, Bethan. Father told me to send you to him once you woke up."

Bethan managed a rueful smile. "Father's always sending you to fetch me," she said.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he replied, kissing her forehead before giving her a halfheartedly playful push in the direction of the stairs.

A few minutes later, when Bethan appeared at the entrance to the throne room, King Caerwyn dismissed the courtiers with whom he had been conversing and beckoned his daughter forward. She walked toward her father's throne, barely registering the sound of the men leaving and closing the room's heavy doors through the pounding of the blood rushing through her veins. Although Cadell had told her all she needed to know, hearing the words of banishment from her father's mouth would make it irrefutable: she was leaving her home today.

At the throne Bethan curtsied and said, "You summoned me, Father?"

Caerwyn looked his daughter over with an appraising glance. A lingering rebellion hovered about her features, but her shoulders were squared resolutely and she met his gaze without faltering.

"Cadell told you," he stated rather than questioned.

Bethan nodded. "He did, sir."

The king said, "Then you know that you will leave with Sirs Gawain and Galahad as soon as everything can be prepared. The maids will gather what clothes you need. A carriage cannot be trusted in the muddy ground this time of year, so your land travel will be on horseback.

"When you arrive in Camelot, you will wed the knight of King Arthur's choosing. In so doing, you will release our family from its curse and ensure our posterity. This duty comes to you by right of being the first daughter born to our family line since the institution of the curse. You will fulfill your duty without question."

He paused as though pondering his next words, then added pointedly, "We cannot afford any difficulties."

Bethan nodded again. "I understand, Father."

King Caerwyn looked at his daughter for a moment longer, and Bethan wondered if he felt any remorse at her leaving. She decided that if he did, it was probably very little. He had always known she was to be sent away, and in any case daughters were of much less interest to fathers than were sons. Beyond an occasional reprimand, usually relating to her attempted evasion of the guards who accompanied her everywhere outside of the fortress, Bethan had spent very little time with her father as a child.

She presumed that the resemblance her old nursemaid always insisted she bore to her mother hadn't helped her garner her father's affections, either.

The king waved his hand in her direction, dismissing her. Bethan curtsied again and took her leave.

* * *

The next few hours were a flurry of preparations as horses were groomed and provisions and baggage were gathered. Bethan had little time to dwell on the implications of her impending journey as she supervised the maids who packed her gowns and a few remnants of her childhood at her behest. Before Bethan knew it, she was wrapped in her warmest cloak and standing beside Gawain and Galahad, facing a row of servants and courtiers who had come to see her off.

The wintry sun shone intermittently as grey clouds scudded across the sky, appearing in greater number than they departed. Before long, the day would be completely grey and the chill wind would bite all the more harshly for lack of sunlight to counteract it. Bethan shivered.

She walked with the knights past the people who had surrounded her all of her life, mustering small smiles for the ones she knew well. Her two eldest brothers and their wives smiled reassuringly at her when she passed them. Next was Cadell, and her feet stopped of their own accord. She had spent the morning preparing for this moment, steeling herself against the inevitable and making numerous promises to herself that she would not cry. Despite those promises, she felt a stinging at the back of her eyes and blinked rapidly to stop the tears that were threatening to overflow.

Cadell spoke first. "If he does anything to hurt you, send for me and I'll personally come and murder him, family line be damned," he said gruffly.

Bethan smiled through watery eyes at the impossibility of her brother's statement and said simply, "I love you, Cadell."

And then she was gone, her feet moving against her volition toward the horses waiting just ahead.

Once the small procession reached their mounts Dobbin helped Bethan onto her horse. The kind smile that he offered her almost made her break her resolve not to cry. She had prepared herself for a farewell to her beloved brother; she hadn't expected a small farewell from an old servant. "Peace be with ye, milady," he murmured before resuming his place in line.

Bethan found herself blinking back tears again. Reins in hand, she looked back one last time at the only home she'd ever known. Then Gawain beckoned and the three riders began their journey as the courtyard's cobblestones turned to grass under the horses' hooves.

The journey to the harbor was bitterly cold, for the cloudy sky brought with it a harsh wind. Bethan pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and hoped it wouldn't start to rain. Being dry and cold was one thing, but being wet and cold was a different sort of trial altogether. In a day where her life was otherwise in upheaval, fortune smiled on her in that instance and aside from the clouds and wind, the weather stayed fair. They rode through rolling hills that gradually morphed into seaside cliffs as they approached the shore from which their ship would depart. The knights spoke seldom to Bethan aside from an occasional inquiry as to her wellbeing and little even between themselves, although she did manage to overhear a few stories of people whose names she didn't recognize.

It was just after dusk when the trio rode into a small town. A few narrow, muddy streets wove their way through close-set thatched-roof cottages. Some of the townsfolk still milled about, finishing their day's business, but most of the villagers had already joined their families for the night. The quietness of the streets decreased along with Bethan's hopes of spending the evening at an inn as they approached the harbor, which bustled in stark contrast to the evening lull that had settled over most of the rest of the town.

Four ships were docked at the harbor and each one was full of sailors unloading boxes to waiting merchant wagons, some loading different boxes onto their respective boats in return.

"You don't usually see so many ships this time of year, but the spell of calm weather we've had must have inspired them to sail," Gawain explained as they rode toward one of the larger vessels.

"It inspired your journey as well, did it not?" Bethan inquired.

Gawain nodded his assent, then motioned toward the ship as he approached Bethan to assist her down from the horse she rode. "This is the ship we shall travel on. We board with the horses tonight, set sail the morning," he said.

"How early do we leave?" Bethan asked.

"At daybreak," Gawain replied. "The journey should take less than half a day if the weather holds and the seas are calm."

He took the horse's reins from Bethan and she followed the knights on board the ship. Galahad left to make sure the horses were settled and cared for below deck while Gawain introduced Bethan to the ship's captain, with whom he and Galahad had previously traveled. When Galahad returned, the knights led Bethan to a cramped room below deck. It was not the same one where the horses were kept, Bethan noted with relief.

The room was dark save for two lanterns hanging from hooks at opposite ends of the ceiling and was filled with boxes of some type of cargo that Bethan couldn't identify but that smelled somewhat dank and musty.

Galahad motioned for Bethan to sit beside him and Gawain on some of the boxes. Noticing her hesitant expression, he shrugged apologetically. "Merchant ship. Not made for passengers," he said. "It's just us and the crew on board. We'll be spending the night here."

"I see," was the only response Bethan could manage. She sat down delicately next to Galahad, who handed her some of the bread and dried meat he and Gawain had just produced from their bags.

"Here, eat this," he said. "Won't do you any good to start a voyage hungry."

"Thank you," Bethan said, accepting his offering.

After the meal, the three of them found positions of varying degrees of discomfort in which to sleep. Galahad and Gawain sat on opposite sides of Bethan, leaning against the wall and looking surprisingly at ease despite the fact that the night was chill and they had given the extra blankets from their packs to Bethan. For her part, the subject of their generosity felt too restless from the day's events and too unused to male presence accompanying her slumber to actually lie down on the floor, although her escorts had given her ample space and blankets to do so if she wished. Instead, she leaned against the wall as well, wadding one of the blankets behind her head as a makeshift pillow and huddling under the remaining ones to ward off the cold. The prospect of the nights between this one and their arrival in Camelot, nights that would most possibly be spent outside in the British wilderness (she would have to remember to ask what the rest of their journey held, she thought as she stared at the wooden planks that formed the ceiling above them), made her shiver.

Despite the daunting prospect of the journey ahead and the even more daunting prospect of what lay at the end of it, Bethan found herself distracted by the gentle rocking of the ship. The sea seemed to be relatively calm that evening and the slap of the waves against the sides of the boat reminded her of a lullaby, although Bethan found that the motion did stir the slightest sense of unease in her stomach. When she finally ceased her musings and drifted off to sleep, she slept fitfully, waking often to hear muffled patches of sailors' conversations coming through the walls. In the end, she was grateful when she woke from her most recent doze to Gawain shaking her shoulder and telling her they were about to cast off from shore.

"Do you want to come up on deck, milady? See the shoreline again as we leave?"

"Yes, please," Bethan said, feeling an unexpected pang of self-pity as she allowed Gawain to help her to her feet.

"Take the time to say your goodbyes to your homeland, Lady Bethan," Galahad added in a sleepy mumble as he stretched and started to stand up himself. "Leaving one's home is no small matter."

Bethan thought she heard Gawain mutter, "He's never made peace with leaving ours," under his breath.

On deck, Bethan was pleased to see that the weather seemed to be fair. Cold and clear, the sun was just starting to crest the horizon. The ship's crew—about fifteen men, Bethan guessed, although she couldn't be sure—was busy preparing to set sail and the deck was full of activity. Gawain led her to a spot near the railing where they were out of the way. Galahad joined them shortly after the boat left the harbor.

Bethan watched as the dock, the town, and the shoreline slowly receded. Before too long, though, the vaguely unpleasant feeling that had plagued her the previous night came back more forcefully than before. Bethan increasingly found it difficult to concentrate on anything except the roiling in her stomach and was only distantly aware of Galahad asking, "Lady Bethan? Are you all right?"

"I don't think I am," she managed tightly, feeling bile rise in her throat as she spoke.

"Have you ever been on a boat before?" Galahad asked.

Bethan shook her head no, immediately regretting the motion, which only added to her discomfort.

"Seasick," he muttered, looking around for Gawain, who had disappeared a few minutes ago. Finding himself alone with the seasick young woman, he offered the one piece of advice he had heard on the subject of the malady from which he had never suffered. Pointing toward the rapidly receding shoreline, he said, "Keep your eyes on the shore as long as you can. It'll give you a point of reference and help calm your stomach."

Bethan fixed her eyes on the green smudge of shoreline for as long as she could see it. Fighting against intense nausea was not how she had imagined catching her last glimpses of her homeland, but at least it kept her from dwelling on either her loss or her impending fate.

Before long, though, the shoreline was out of sight and Bethan found herself feeling sicker and sicker. Closing her eyes didn't help, but neither did focusing on something that was moving just as much as she was. Finally, in a desperate attempt not to lose her stomach, she blurted, "The journey. What's ahead of us? Tell me about it. Please. It might distract me and that might help."

Galahad, who didn't particularly want to deal with a vomiting young woman, started talking immediately. Bethan did her best to focus on his words and the feeling did abate a bit. He spoke mostly of forests and wildlife and a little of settlements and people groups. When he had exhausted what he considered to be essential information in that regard, he started speaking of battles, talking about people she didn't know but wasn't inclined to ask about at the moment. Later, she told herself as she focused on breathing. She'd inquire later if the occasion arose. Once in Camelot, she'd learn about the people she needed to know.

Bethan wasn't sure how much time was passing, although she was vaguely aware of Gawain coming and going and had enough presence of mind to pity Galahad, who had clearly been abandoned by Gawain once her condition was generally known. Galahad continued talking and she was grateful for his company as well as his attempt to help her keep her stomach's contents in their proper place. Her stomach calmed a bit when they were sailing briskly on the open sea, although it still took concentration to resist being sick. It was both a joy and a terror when Galahad pointed out land in the distance to her. They were almost there and the sea voyage (her first and last, she vowed to herself) would be over. However, the closer to land they got, the more her stomach churned.

Despite her best efforts, Bethan was sick. She leaned over the deck's railing and felt Galahad awkwardly supporting her as she stood shakily. After she had composed herself as best she could, she looked at Galahad (who, for all the gruesome battles he'd discussed, looked decidedly uncomfortable at being in her presence given her condition) and managed to say, "Thank you. You're being very kind." Before she could stop them, the next words slipped out and she heard her sick-drunk voice saying, "I'm really sorry I told Cadell you reminded me of a newt." She barely registered the confused look on Galahad's face before she was leaning over the ship's railing again.

The rest of the sea journey passed in a blur for Bethan, but she was keenly aware of when Galahad, who had carried her off the boat after deeming her unfit to walk on her own, set her down to sit on solid ground. Solid it may have been, but it seemed unduly shaky to Bethan. With her eyes pinched tightly shut and her breathing labored, she said, "This Britain of yours reels as much as the sea, sir knights."

Gawain, who had just finished bringing the horses off the ship, laughed and replied, "Give it some time, Lady Bethan. Your stomach will calm and then we'll continue on our way."

The next few days' journey to Camelot passed uneventfully. The weather, although seasonably cold, was mostly fair and Bethan found the knights, while not extremely talkative, to be good company. Their nights were spent outside, but warm fires made sleep possible for Bethan while Galahad and Gawain took turns keeping watch.

Britain, Bethan discovered, largely resembled Ailech in both flora and fauna. One afternoon, she was occupying herself by trying to catch glimpses of winter birds nesting in the forest through which they journeyed when Galahad spoke.

"Lady Bethan," he said, drawing his horse beside hers and pointing to direct her gaze, "If you look through that gap in the trees up ahead, you can see Camelot."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi there. So…long time, no see (or no write/read, as it were). In my (very feeble) defense, life was distracting and the holidays were distracting and then I started watching **_**The Tudors**_**, in which Henry Cavill proved to be **_**very**_** distracting. ;) Excuses, excuses, I know. At any rate, this chapter is longer than any of its predecessors, so perhaps I might be pardoned?**

**Many thanks, as per usual, to homeric for her beta awesomeness and to CeffylGwyn for her constant badgering (*cough*kind reminders*cough*) to work on this story. You are both fantastic.**

**And thanks also to all the lovely people who've read, reviewed, followed, & favorited. I hope you continue to enjoy the story & I love hearing from you.**

**PSA: There are non-movie knights in minor roles in this story, the first of them being introduced in this chapter. I am using traditional Arthurian names but they won't match the traditional Arthurian characters. Sorry if this disappoints.  
**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize, either mythologically, cinematically, or otherwise. I am making no monetary profit from this venture.  
**

**Happy New Year & enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The sun had not journeyed far in the sky following Galahad's pronouncement before the travelers left the woodland behind them to traverse the now-icy farmlands surrounding Camelot's outer wall. The horses picked their way along the road that passed through plots of varying sizes denoted by neat stone borders. A few wheat stalks that had been passed over by both the harvesters and the gleaners in autumn now stood as solemn upright icicles, glistening in the cold winter sun.

As they approached the city, a handful of scattered huts came into view. Most were empty, used as additional shelter in summer and autumn when work began before sunrise and ended after sunset, so farmers didn't always return home at night. Wisps of smoke rose above a few, however, and Bethan caught sight of some of the poorer inhabitants of Camelot, those who could not afford—or chose not to seek—shelter within the city walls.

When a group of rosy-cheeked and energetic children engaged in some sort of game saw the trio, they stopped their play and acknowledged the knights. Gawain and Galahad smiled and saluted in return. For an instant, the scene was suspended in the air along with their frost-laced breaths, but then one little boy pushed one of the others, and the whole troupe of children raced off again, their giggles and shrieks echoing across the frozen ground.

At a barred gate in the outer wall, the knights exchanged greetings with the guards and the heavy wooden doors swung open to allow them entrance. Once inside, any serenity Bethan had felt in the woods and farmlands dissipated quickly. Even in the dead of winter, Camelot bustled with activity. Children and dogs ran through the streets, dodging their elders and any horses as necessary. The road they traveled took them through the city marketplace where vendors hawked their wares to potential customers. Bethan noticed a tannery, a bakery, a clothier's store, a cobbler's shop, and a seamstress' shop before she stopped trying to account for every building or stall they passed. Camelot was the largest city she'd ever visited and it was as fascinating as it was overwhelming.

They passed by a second set of guards and through an inner gate that opened onto a courtyard. The large stone building adjacent, Bethan surmised, was the inner fortress where the King and his court lived. Gawain helped Bethan dismount and then motioned to a red-haired girl who appeared to be around Bethan's age. The girl hurried over and curtsied, then pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and smiled at Bethan.

Gawain placed his hand lightly on Bethan's shoulder and nodded to the girl, saying by means of introduction, "Lady Bethan, this is Phoebe. She is to be your maidservant. Galahad and I are glad of your safe arrival in Camelot and now leave you in her capable hands. She will provide you with what further information you require. Farewell."

He bowed slightly before leading his mount away. Galahad followed suit silently, although he spared Bethan a parting smile as he led her horse as well as his own toward the stables. Bethan smiled and inclined her head in return, although she felt a shiver of trepidation as the only familiarity in her new home walked in the opposite direction across the cobblestones.

"You are Lady Bethan, I am told?" a cheerful voice beside her asked.

Bethan's attention shifted from the departing knights to Phoebe, who had addressed her. The girl's auburn hair was tied in a loose knot at the nape of her neck and her brown eyes sparkled against her lightly freckled skin. She smiled again and Bethan returned the gesture. "Yes, my name is Bethan," she said.

"I am pleased to meet you, milady. Ever since King Arthur told me I would be in your service, I wondered with what sort of woman Galahad and Gawain would return."

Bethan raised an eyebrow. "Am I what you expected?" she inquired.

"You are younger than I expected," Phoebe said with a smile, "which makes you closer to my age, I reckon." Then she added, "I am eighteen."

"And I am sixteen," Bethan said, shivering in a sudden gust of wind.

Phoebe laughed. "Just the age I was when I was wed," she said. "Come now, let's go inside. You must be freezing." She led Bethan through a maze of dark passageways and up several flights of stairs before she took out a key and unlocked a door that she then pushed open as she announced, "This is your room."

Bethan stepped inside and surveyed the room as Phoebe followed her through the door. The stonework, wooden furniture, and fireplace were all reminiscent of her room at home, although the room in Camelot was slightly larger than hers had been in Ailech. It had a window, too, that upon inspection revealed a view of the inner courtyard from which they had come. Glancing around the room again, Bethan reconsidered her initial evaluation of the room's size. Perhaps the light made it appear larger, for it had not taken her many paces to walk across it, or maybe it only seemed more spacious because, she realized on her second glance around the room, among its contents there was no bed.

"Well, what do you think?" Phoebe asked, looking at Bethan expectantly as the latter joined her near the fireplace.

"The room is lovely, Phoebe," Bethan said, rubbing her hands together and holding them out toward the fire. She loved the outdoors, but she had to admit that it felt glorious to be inside after so many days on the road. "But where am I to sleep? There is no bed."

"Oh, yes there is," Phoebe said, crossing the room and pushing open another door. She beckoned for Bethan to join her and said, "It's in here."

Bethan looked through the doorway and saw that there was, indeed, a bed as well as a small table in the next room. She turned to Phoebe, confused. "Begging your pardon, but I do not understand. Why isn't the bed in the room with the rest of the furniture? Is this a custom here in Camelot?"

"Well, no." Phoebe conceded after a brief hesitation. "Usually a bedroom is just one room, not two, and the bed is in with the rest of the furniture. King Arthur ordered to have you put here in this room because of your…particular circumstances."

"My particular circumstances?" Bethan echoed. Ever since the knights' arrival at her father's fortress, questions seemed to be much more easily forthcoming than answers.

Phoebe sighed and shook her head. "I am afraid I do not have the authority to reveal those details to you, Lady Bethan. I was chosen for this position because I've proven my ability to be discreet," she said, her voice and gestures conveying a mixture of regret on Bethan's part and pride on her own.

"Well, then," she said, changing the subject and abruptly shutting the door to the chamber with the bed. She turned to Bethan and said, "I am to take you to meet with the king once you are refreshed from your journey. He did not suppose you would want to meet him fresh from the road."

"That was most gracious of King Arthur," Bethan said. "But, please, Phoebe, why all this mystery? It seems that no one is able to reveal anything in this country—Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad could not tell my father who I am to marry and now you cannot tell me why my room is arranged strangely?"

"I'm afraid it must be that way for now, Lady Bethan," Phoebe said apologetically. "Your meeting with the king will clarify some things, though," she added, as if that were consolation enough.

Frowning, Bethan decided her only option was to wait for her audience with the king. Phoebe, for all of her cheerful disposition, did seem to possess a stubborn sense of discretion and loyalty to her employer. Good traits, Bethan mused, although they worked against her at the moment.

A knock at the door signaled the presence of two male servants with Bethan's bags in tow. As Phoebe retrieved the bags and began unpacking Bethan's clothes into the chest allotted for that purpose, Bethan wandered back to the window and looked outside at the few people passing through the courtyard. She'd heard much about King Arthur and his knights—tales of daring and bravery had passed down the banquet tables in Ailech from time to time—and she wondered if he was really as powerful and deserving of the apparent loyalty given to him as the stories implied.

"There, that's finished," Phoebe said, interrupting Bethan's reverie as she stood and brushed out her skirts. "Would you like to rest any longer, milady, or do you think you would like to change out of your traveling clothes and meet the king?"

"His majesty has been most patient already," Bethan replied. "Help me change, Phoebe. I wish to meet the king." She was unsure as to whether the prospect of meeting such a fabled king and possibly having some questions answered about her fate was calming or nerve-wracking, but common sense told her it was best not to delay the inevitable.

After Bethan had changed into the dress that she and Phoebe agreed was the least wrinkled from the journey, she followed her maidservant (who occasionally hummed soft snippets of songs as they walked) through another set of winding passageways until they reached a long hallway with small, high-set windows along one side.

"This passage goes along the whole outside wall of the fortress," Phoebe explained over her shoulder, nodding toward the outer wall with the windows. "The throne room where King Arthur receives visitors is off of here, near the main entrance."

Bethan wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, fisting the fabric slightly as she wondered how much longer she would have to wait before her audience with the king. She had met visiting nobles and sometimes royalty in her father's house, but it was an entirely different prospect now that she was the newcomer in unfamiliar surroundings with a king to impress.

After a few short minutes that seemed very long to Bethan, she and Phoebe reached an open space in the passageway. Bethan noticed a sturdy set of double wooden doors that she guessed led outside and, farther up along the hallway, a much more ornately carved set of doors guarded by a man she assumed must be a knight. She had barely made these observations before Phoebe stopped suddenly and Bethan almost collided with her.

"This is the main entrance," Phoebe explained, gesturing toward the doors Bethan had suspected of that purpose. "King Arthur meets with any subjects who wish to speak with him in the mornings when he is home in Camelot, and this is where the people wait. Over there," she said, pointing to a table set along a wall with a few chairs behind it, "is where the king's guard sits. Everyone who wishes to speak to the king must first speak to his guard to help ensure no one gets through who wishes to harm the king. A scribe records every visit." Phoebe rocked on her heels and then turned, answering the question Bethan was about to ask before she even opened her mouth. "The visits usually end around midday and as it is nearly dusk now, the hall is much quieter than its habitual morning commotion."

She began to walk again and Bethan followed her silently to the ornate double doors behind which the king waited. Phoebe spoke to the guard—"Cei," she had told Bethan as they approached, "one of the newer knights."—who nodded and opened one of the doors for them and beckoned them inside.

Bethan's pulse was scurrying as she followed Phoebe through the doors. The king's throne room was elegant, filled with colorful tapestries and sconces that made it seem bright even in the fading light of day. On thrones across the room sat a man and a woman she could only assume were King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Confronted with their proud bearings and benevolent gazes that held such power and authority, Bethan suddenly felt very small and out of place. Here, indeed, were the people of whom legend spoke.

Phoebe led Bethan down the center of the room until she reached out and put her hand on Bethan's arm, signaling her to stop. She walked a few steps ahead of Bethan, curtsied deeply, and announced in a crisp, clear voice, "The Lady Bethan of Ailech, your highnesses." Then she was gone, gliding past Bethan and out the door, which Cei closed behind her.

Now alone with the royalty of whom she had heard so much, Bethan curtsied deeply before the king and queen, then waited for them to speak.

"Lady Bethan," Arthur began, and if she had not judged as much from his appearance, his voice held all of the reasons she needed to understand why he commanded such allegiance from his subjects. He was regal, poised, and powerful.

Bethan felt a sudden urge to flee that she suppressed by clenching her fists so tightly that her nails began to bite into the flesh of her palms. This king held her future in her hands, and she was terrified. But despite the respect he commanded and the intense scrutiny with which he currently regarded her, she sensed a kindness behind his green eyes. King Arthur would not willingly lead her or any of his subjects to ruin; of this she was unaccountably sure.

The king continued, "Welcome to Camelot. I trust you have been informed of the reason why you are here?"

Bethan answered, "I was told that I am here to marry the knight of your choosing to seal an alliance between yourself and my father."

"That is correct," Arthur nodded. Then she felt the scrutiny of his gaze sharpen as he asked, "Have you been informed of the particular details of this union?"

Bethan furrowed her brow slightly and shook her head. Therein lay the majority of her worries. Amazed at the evenness of her tone, she replied, "No, your highness. I know only what I stated previously."

"Then allow me to fill the gaps in your knowledge," Arthur said. "Lady Bethan, for reasons not directly related to you or to the alliance with your father, the marriage you are about to enter must be kept a secret. Only myself, the queen, and a few select others know of its existence. Because of this secrecy, even you cannot know who your husband is. You will marry him in secret and he will come to you in your chambers in secret. Your maidservant Phoebe knows the details and will act as a liaison between you and your husband. Ostensibly, you are here as a companion for the queen Guinevere and that is how you will fill your days." He nodded toward his wife even as he reached out to take her hand.

Guinevere, for her part, intertwined her slim fingers with her husband's strong ones, smiled a smile that Bethan didn't quite believe and said, "I look forward to getting to know you, Lady Bethan."

"And I you, your highness," Bethan forced herself to say through her racing thoughts.

Seeing the shocked look on Bethan's face that she hadn't quite been able to shake after his revelation of her future in Camelot, Arthur's hard expression softened slightly and he added, "I can assure you, Lady Bethan, that your husband is a knight of good standing in Camelot. I do not think he will do you harm or I would not have put you in this situation. I do not take my alliance with your father lightly."

"Of course not, your highness," Bethan said.

"As a sign of my dedication regarding the alliance with your father, we will not delay the proceedings. You will wed tomorrow, Lady Bethan, and in so doing you will at once seal our alliance and free your family from its curse. The following day, you begin your life as Guinevere's companion."

"As you wish, your highness," Bethan said softly.

After a few more seconds of observing her, Arthur nodded and said, "You are dismissed, Lady Bethan. Please know that I am very glad to have secured an alliance with your father. Knock when you reach the throne room door; Cei will open it for you."

"Thank you, your highnesses." Bethan curtsied to the royal couple and walked to the door, where she knocked with a shaky hand. Thankfully, Cei heard her knock and opened it immediately. She walked a few steps beyond the door, which Cei closed again, and was relieved to see Phoebe rushing toward her from where she had been waiting near one of the walls.

"Lady Bethan," Phoebe said, taking her arm and walking alongside her. "You look as though you've seen a ghost. Are you all right?"

Bethan drew a shaky breath, using the warmth of Phoebe's hand on her arm and the solidity of the stones beneath her feet to keep from becoming too lightheaded. She had been dreading marriage to a stranger her whole life, and now she had discovered that not only was she to wed a stranger, but that he was to remain always a stranger. The hopes she had harbored in her deepest heart, hopes of eventually finding love with the man she was forced to marry, had begun to slip away and she knew that eventually the tears would come. She only wished to avoid shedding them in public after her first meeting with the great King Arthur, who, despite the apparent cruelty of the situation in which he had placed her, lived up to the tales she had heard of him. He was a great man and, she thought, not in his heart a cruel one.

She smiled tightly and said, "Thank you for your concern, Phoebe. In our meeting, King Arthur informed me of some details of my impending marriage of which I was previously unaware. I am not unwell, merely shaken."

Phoebe nodded and regarded her mistress sadly. "Let me take you to your room, milady. We can speak further there."

No sooner had Bethan replied, "Of course," than a tall, armed man with long braided hair loped past the young women with a hurried gait. He left in his wake the chill of the outdoors and its wintry air.

"Who was that?" Bethan asked Phoebe, momentarily distracted from her melancholy.

"That, milady, was the knight Tristan. He is the king's premier scout and one of his most trusted knights." She glanced over her shoulder at the knight's retreating figure, then added, "And from the looks of it, he's not got good news for our king."

* * *

Tristan barely noticed the two girls he passed in the hallway on his way to find Arthur, but he saw enough to know that Phoebe was one of them and that her companion was a young woman he'd never seen before. She was slender, taller than Phoebe (but that didn't take much, he allowed), and had long, dark hair that contrasted sharply with her pale blue eyes. He had noticed that Gawain and Galahad's horses were back when he'd recently returned his own horse to the stable and he guessed that this new girl was Lancelot's intended, the princess from Ailech.

He registered this thought in a few seconds before he returned to the task at hand, which was finding Arthur and informing him of what he and Lancelot had discovered on the scouting mission they'd returned from only moments before. He'd left Lancelot to wait for Dagonet with Jols in the stables and his long strides took him quickly in search of the king.

He found Arthur just outside the throne room, speaking with Guinevere and Cei.

"Arthur," he said brusquely, aware that he was interrupting a conversation but not much caring. "We need to talk."

The bluntness of his scout was something to which Arthur had long become accustomed, so he merely nodded and said, "Come to my chambers and we can speak there." He bade Cei farewell and, along with Guinevere, he and Tristan headed toward the interior of the fortress.

Once they were inside the king's outer chamber, Arthur motioned for Tristan to sit down. He did, and accepted the wine Arthur then offered him.

"What news do you bear, Tristan?" Arthur asked, sitting down beside him with his own cup of wine.

"There is trouble to the north," Tristan said.

"What sort of trouble?" Arthur asked. "Saxons?" While the battle at Badon Hill had wiped out the majority of the Saxon army, rogue bands occasionally cropped up and attempted to continue what Cynric and Cerdic had failed to accomplish.

Tristan shook his head and his braids shuddered with the motion. "Not Saxons. At least, I don't think so. Doesn't seem like typical Saxon work."

"What did you find, then?" Arthur asked.

"Can't tell exactly," Tristan said. "And that's the problem. The tour passed with little to note until Lancelot and I reached the territory near where Marius' estate used to be. That's where the land was burnt."

Arthur paused with his wine cup partway to his mouth and raised an eyebrow. "Burnt? By what?"

Tristan shifted, his free hand making restless gestures in the air as he spoke. "What we saw was acres of burnt land covered with apparently randomly placed remains of carcasses—small beasts, mostly foxes, best we could tell. My guess is that they were tied in pairs, set afire, and set loose. Lancelot and I scoured most of the area and the only evidence of human tracks we found didn't lead anywhere," Tristan said.

"But someone had to set the animals alight," Guinevere spoke up from the corner where she had been standing, observing the men in silence.

"Someone did," Tristan conceded, nodding toward the queen. "But they covered their tracks well."

"Why would someone do such a thing?" Guinevere asked. "It seems like such a pointless act."

Tristan took another sip of his wine and shrugged. "Cruelty. Boredom. Who knows? Nothing about the site seemed overtly suspicious, just odd."

Arthur was silent for a moment, mulling over the information Tristan had given him as he slowly swirled the liquid in his glass. Looking up from his wine, he asked, "What do you suggest we do, Tristan?"

The scout drained the last of his wine and spun the cup slowly in his lithe fingers as he thought. Finally he looked up at Arthur and shrugged. "I would say to do nothing now, but keep an eye out on future scouting trips. See if oddities continue."

Arthur nodded. "Very well, then. I accept your counsel. There is a meeting with all the knights tomorrow afternoon and we can inform them of this development then."

Tristan nodded his agreement, rose to leave with a brief bow, and was almost out the door when Arthur added, "Oh, and Tristan?"

Tristan paused and Arthur said, "Please find Lancelot and tell him to come speak to me here immediately."

* * *

Upstairs, Bethan sat on the chair in the outer chamber of her rooms, staring intently at her clasped hands. Phoebe waited nearby for a few moments, occasionally tapping her foot or fidgeting with her sleeves, until she finally sighed impatiently, knelt down beside her charge, and, waving a hand in front of Bethan's face to get her attention, said, "Milady, if I may be so bold, I implore you to speak."

"Excuse me?" Bethan asked as she looked up from her hands, slightly taken aback.

"I said, 'Please speak.' I can see that your thoughts are running wild behind that pretty face of yours, and it will help you sort your thoughts if you talk about them," Phoebe prompted. "I have four sisters and when something worried me, I always felt better if I talked it over with them."

Bethan raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't wish to talk to you?"

Phoebe shrugged. "Then it is your choice to keep your silence. But I still say it would calm your spirit if you talk."

After a further moment of skeptical silence on Bethan's part, Phoebe sighed again and said more tenderly, "I know this is all very abrupt, milady, and that you've been taken from your home and everything you've ever known. But Arthur is a good king and Camelot is a good place to live. You can learn to like it here, I know you can. And there's a tournament in two days' time—you'll get to see all the knights acting like obstinate children, trying to best one another's military skills in the freezing cold." She grinned. "Camelot at its best, I assure you."

Bethan smiled briefly in return and asked, "Did Arthur choose you to be my maid because he knew you would talk so much that I would have no time to brood on the questions that plague this journey?"

Phoebe laughed and grinned conspiratorially at her new mistress. "Only in part. But you'll find that so much time with sisters also made me an excellent listener. So if you wanted to take me up on that suggestion of talking I made earlier…" She waved one of her hands vaguely in the air, leaving an opening for Bethan to speak.

Bethan sighed. She wanted to talk to somebody, and it appeared that Phoebe was her only option at the moment. Besides, the girl seemed nice enough. And was apparently trusted enough by the king to be put in a position requiring utmost discretion. She drew in another deep breath and began talking.

* * *

Tristan found Lancelot in the mostly empty tavern with Dagonet, midway through the process of rapidly downing a mug of ale.

"Wouldn't drink that so quickly if I were you," Tristan observed as he slid onto the bench next to Lancelot.

Lancelot shot him a disparaging look and replied, "And why would I deny myself the pleasure of libation after a scouting mission? You should be joining me, not discouraging me, man—you took the same trip yourself."

Tristan only shrugged, although he did motion for one of the barmaids to bring him a mug of ale. After a few moments, he said, "Yes, but I don't have a wife who might not appreciate her husband's public drunkenness."

Lancelot leveled Tristan with a suspicious stare as his grip on his ale tightened. "Last time I checked, I didn't have a wife, either."

"Not yet," Tristan said, taking a sip of his own drink. "But she's here in Camelot."

Lancelot paled. "When did she get here? Have you seen her?"

Tristan ignored Lancelot's questions and merely said, "Arthur sent me to find you. He wants to talk to you in his outer chambers. Now."

Lancelot pushed back abruptly from the table, tossing a few coins on it to pay for his drink as he left the tavern with Dagonet close behind.

Arthur had sent Guinevere to their inner chambers and was sitting at his table alone, looking at a map of the area where Tristan had reported trouble, when he heard the hurried footsteps shortly before Lancelot burst into his room, followed by a much calmer Dagonet.

Arthur spoke before Lancelot had a chance. "I see Tristan found you."

Lancelot nodded impatiently, walking hastily to stand in front of Arthur's table. "Where is she, Arthur? When am I to meet her?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow and pushed the map slightly to the side before replying, "You're not."

"I'm…what?"

"You heard me, Lancelot," Arthur said. "You won't be meeting her, at least not formally."

"How am I to marry her if I never meet her?" Lancelot asked suspiciously. He knew he had very little room to challenge his king given the new dimensions of their relationship, but he had a distinct feeling he would not like where this conversation was headed.

Arthur sighed and stood, meeting Lancelot's gaze evenly. "I told you already that your marriage is to be a secret. However, I left out one detail when I presented that arrangement to you. You will know who your wife is, but she will not know who you are. You will marry her in secret and you will go to her in secret."

Lancelot looked startled and he eyed Arthur with the increasing fury of prey that has realized its fate. "Not only will you deny me a public marriage, but you will also deny me an informed wife? Arthur, I realize that I have wronged you. You have made that eminently clear. But in this you go too far."

Arthur's fist slammed down on his table, further disturbing the papers strewn there. "I do not go too far, Lancelot," he roared, stepping out from behind the table and pacing restlessly, his words coming in heated accusation. "You slept with my wife. You took her love from me. It is only just that I prevent your wife from knowing and loving you."

Lancelot took a few steps backward, instinctively distancing himself from the king's anger even as his own grew. "So you will allow me to marry her for political gain and go to her bed as often as I please, yet you intend to keep her forever ignorant of her husband's identity? You know that I am no romantic, Arthur, but that seems unfair to the poor girl."

"Better to be ignorant, perhaps, than to know that her husband is a faithless womanizer," Arthur rejoined.

By this time, both men were breathing hard in their rage as they stood some distance from each other. The tension in the air spoke to the fact that the slightest provocation could induce a brawl. Dagonet watched quietly from the corner, loath to interfere but ready to act should his friends come to fisticuffs.

Arthur regained his composure first, speaking sternly into the angry silence. "I am your king, Lancelot. You are my second-in-command, not my equal. I will not tolerate further questions on this subject. You will marry the Lady Bethan on the morrow and I expect evidence of the union's consummation the following morn. What you do with her beyond that is up to you."

Lancelot curled his fingers into his palms, feeling at the moment that he would like nothing better than to provoke a fistfight with Arthur. Instead, after several deep breaths during which Arthur stared at him challengingly, he bowed and rasped, "As you wish, _my king_."

He stalked out of Arthur's chambers, followed closely by Dagonet, who was relieved he had not had to intervene.

* * *

On the other side of the room, just inside the private quarters Arthur and his wife shared, Guinevere stepped back from the door where she had listened to the proceedings. She heard her husband's footsteps coming toward the door and so she bit back the tears that were threatening to overflow. Her lover was banished from her presence, her husband despised her, and she had no one to blame but herself. And so when her husband entered their private quarters still wearing the last seething remnants of his rage, she smiled at him, spoke to him gently, and comforted him in the way in which a wife comforts a husband. She would reflect on her own troubles in some quiet moment another day.


End file.
